


a second twin

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bill is an asshole, Depression, Ford is an unintentional dick, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Self-Hatred, Stan is sad and everything hurts, fuck i am really sorry, oh my god i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, Stan always knew he was the second twin. And hey, maybe Stan should have known it wouldn't last.</p><p>Stan was the second twin.</p><p> </p><p>[Stan's thoughts from baby-Stanley to Grunkle.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hurt

Of course, Stan always knew he was the second twin.

"Me and you against the world!" They would cheer, juiceboxes thrust in the air, tiny fists clenched tight to show the world that they were Stan and Ford, they were the Stan Twins; they were against the world and nothing could separate them.

Of course that was easy when you're five and the only people you can really be against are the bullies down the road. And against them they were, Stan protecting Ford when his glasses were cracked accidentally-on-purpose, Ford protecting Stan when someone shoved their foot under his heel and he went flying. Back then, it really was Stan And Ford Against The World. They had adventures. They ran around parks and squealed and giggled when they fell and tripped and found interesting rocks to share. 

Hey, maybe Stan should have known it wouldn't last.

Stan was the second twin.

"Oh, Stanford," gushes their teacher on their very second day of school, "Are you sure your parents haven't been teaching you extra at home? This is Very Good Work!" She plops a sticker on Ford's nametag, and the boy who could have been Stan grins wider than Stan's ever seen him smile before. His six fingers touch the sticker, a golden star with a cheesy grin, and he ducks his head behind the book he's reading; a book two grades above everyone else.

Stan looks down at his page.

He wants to understand. He knows he can.

Those are the letters they were taught earlier in class, and if he focuses he can make words out of them, but it takes him a while. A furtive glance at Ford, at the eyes that could be Stan's flickering from one side of the page to the other as fast as they can, leaves Stan with a sick sort of feeling in his stomach. It doesn't matter that the rest of the kids in his class are the same as Stan, or worse; Stan has to be like Ford.

They're Stan And Ford Against The World, so how come Ford gets the books and Stan gets a picture of a dog and a D - O - G below it?

Stan thinks it might get better. And at least they're too young for their parents to get much feedback from the teacher. Maybe, he thinks as he watches Ford devour book after book, maybe that first day and that first week and that first month were all flukes. Stan was off his game. He's going to go back to school after the weekend and zoom up to Ford's level and then it'll be like it was again, Stan And Ford Against The World. All this is some joke the universe is playing. A foot under his heel. Bullies won't keep doing it if you don't fight back, right? 

Stan doesn't fight back. 

Stan knows that this is a trick, a game, that life is being a bully at this little moment. It'll go away. It'll empty. 

Except -

School is full of it.

"Very Good Work, Stanford!" Miss Edinford beams. She peels star after shiny star from the coveted sheet in her desk, and Ford's nametag is drenched with them. Smiley, cheesy stars, telling the world that this is the good twin. This is the twin that's got Very Good Work.

Every time Ford gets a sticker his ears turn red and he grins.

Stan tries to replicate the smile. He does everything. After school, he goes looking for treasure on his own - "But Stan, I've got extra homework!" - and he draws pictures of them having adventures - "Stan, I'm trying to concentrate," - and he tries, oh, how he tries.

There's two shiny stars on his nametag.

One night, halfway through the year, Stan has a nightmare. He dreams of Ford at the wheel of their future pirate ship, in a hat made of shiny stars. "Ford!" Stan exclaims, happy, because it's a future dream and he loves those. Everything is "Ford!" But Ford turns around, his mouth replaced by one of the cheesy, shiny grins, and the stars fly from his hat to pin Stan to the deck of the ship. "Not smart enough to go exploring," they hiss, "Stan is the second twin. Stan is the spare twin. Stan is the worst twin."

Stan wakes up sweating and doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.

They grow up and it's horrible and wrong and Stan hates it.

Ford is so good.

Stan is not.

Ford doesn't have time for him anymore, which Stan understands. He wouldn't have time for himself. He doesn't want to have time for himself, because he's turning out to be a disappointment to everyone. (That's the phrase they write on school reports. He's disappointing. Dad tuts and Mom frowns and Stan feels.)

And every time Stan pauses at the door to Ford's room, fist in the air ready to knock, the pressure that's constantly building behind his eyes rises and rises and tickles until he thinks the dam is going to burst. Every time, he loses courage and goes to his room to call Carla, who's a very nice girl he wishes he liked more. He doesn't really like anyone, that's the problem, but he's pretty damn good at faking it. He's a wonderful actor. So he calls Carla and flirts and she flirts back, and they go see movies together and Stan realises he hasn't talked to Ford in a week -

He stops trying.

What's the point, really?

If they're twins, why isn't Stan as smart as Ford, as handsome, as popular, as brilliant?

Maybe Stan's adopted.

He's disturbed by how much that idea delights him.

Because they're twins. That means their genes are the same, Stan's not a complete idiot, and it means that there's no reason Stan shouldn't have stars and awards. Stan just has awkward, uncomfortable moments with Carla in the back of his car, his hands up her shirt, her mouth sucking at his neck. She likes him too much. And Stan has Carla, and girls are meant to be the be-all-and-end-all, but Ford with his shelf of awards beats everything. 

The shelf starts emptying of beach treasures and filling with trophies and certificates and pictures of Ford smiling and shaking semi-famous hands. 

So, yeah, adoption would be pretty cool. 

And the pressure has become a game. It's always there, like a friend, almost, and he's had it for two years without the dam spilling. It reaches the danger zone whenever Stan talks to Ford (rare) or whenever Ford does something wonderful (very, very common) or whenever Dad or a teacher or Mom yells at him for not being a good person (also common.) It's sort of fun in a twisted way, to see how far Stan can push himself before he breaks.

Hasn't broken yet.

And Carla likes him. Stan feels terrible, because he doesn't like her; he doesn't like himself, never mind other people.

He likes Ford, but so does everyone. Stan's not special there.

Stan's not special anywhere.

All the same, Stan's sure he's got this landed. His secret application to a Dramatics and Theatrical Arts college sits in his drawer, filled out neatly. He's sure he'll get a call for the preforming auditions, with his track record. (Lead in two drama club plays - passed by Ford, in the science fair, and lead in the school play every year - passed by Ford, with the math competition serials.)

Stan's got his Plan. He's not going to hunt for treasure.

He's going to go to college. His parents will fund him. He'll be all right. If he can act constantly from the age of five to eighteen, he can pass with flying colours in a drama college.

Until -

He stares at the Perpetual Motion device. His hands are shaking; he drops the packet of peanuts he was eating, takes a step back, feels it crunch under his toe. He's broken it. He didn't mean to. He didn't mean to. He didn't mean to! His hands are trembling, his whole body is shaking like a leaf.

Trust the second twin to mess things up.

He runs.

He thinks it's fixed.

It's not.

"I'm so sorry, Ford," he pleads, and doesn't think about how this is the longest conversation they've had in weeks, "I'm so sorry, I swear I didn't mean to, it was an accident, I-"

"You were angry because I'm going somewhere without you!" Ford yells. Like he hasn't been gone.

Stan doesn't voice that. "I'm not, I swear, I'm really happy for you, bro, and I actually applied for somewhere else-"

"Community college?" Ford sneers. His eyes are wet, his hands clutching the ripped college brochure. He must be feeling awful. Stan would, if he were Ford. Ford always has so much emotion, so loud, and Stan's an unfeeling jerk. 

Stan is such an asshole. He ruined Ford's one chance of escaping him, he ruined Ford's opportunity to be more than just a twin. Stan is the weight around Ford's ankle, the noose around his neck. "I'm sorry, I really am-"

But apologies don't cut it. Stan doesn't blame any of them. In his mind, the little pressure cooker builds and builds, but never quite bursts, even when Dad hands him a case and taps his watch. Even when Ford watches with a stony glare as Stan folds shirts and pants into the case. Even when his brother's eyes widen as Stan opens the drawer by his bed and takes out the now-useless college application.

"Community college," Stan tries to joke as he carefully slides the application in. He's keeping that safe. Memento. Reminder of what could have happened if he wasn't such an idiot.

Ford doesn't speak.

"Bye, then," Stan clears his throat and the pressure cooker squeals behind his eyes. It feels like someone has their thumbs behind them, pushing and pushing, but he can't quite bring himself to spill. To explode. Because that would be fifteen years of emotions Stan can't deal with. Fifteen years of feelings that are stupid and that he shouldn't be having in the first place. So he doesn't let the pressure cooker win.

Ford doesn't speak.

It's raining that night. How very _ambient._

Stan takes the car. He feels bad about it, but he takes the car, and he takes the memory of Ford's tear-streaked face to remind him that no matter what he does, he's ruined Ford's life. He's wrecked it. He can't fix it, but he can sure as hell feel bad about it. He doesn't deserve to live in that house, so he doesn't, and it's fine. He messed up Ford, and Ford's too sad already without Stan making it worse. 

He doesn't deserve to live in the house, so he doesn't.

Most nights, he knows he doesn't deserve to live. 

But Stan Pines is an asshole and a jerk and a selfish bastard, so he does. 

He travels.

He doesn't take much with him.

He doesn't even take his name. All he takes are a change of clothes, a battered red car, a yellowing college application, and memories of all the people he's disappointed. The list lengthens with every state. He knows he's doing wrong. He knows he's brought this all on himself. 

The worst was whenever he was shot and for a few blissful minutes, sailing high on the pain, Stan thought he was dying. He doesn't have the guts to do it himself, of course, because he's a selfish, arrogant, unfeeling  _bastard,_ but he's perfectly happy to have someone else do it for him. Wasn't it just his luck that someone called the ambulance and Stan recovered with nothing but an ugly scar on his side and a huge hospital bill to avoid? Dying would be too much for Stan to wish for, at this point. 

At least Ford's gotten away from him. The ball and chain. The noose. The second twin. 

Until - 

Ford calls him.

Stan drives, damn him, because he owes it to Ford to come to his beck and call, because Stan has been nothing but horrible to everyone for his whole life and the least he can do is come when Ford needs him. And he's neglected Ford for years and years, which is  _unfair,_ Stan should  _be there_ for his twin. It's the least he can do, right? He can just do this one thing for Ford, selfish, arrogant, unfeeling, idiotic bastard that he is. Second twin. 

And Ford is in Oregon.

And Ford surely hates him, even now.

After all, Stan does.

The pressure cooker, which had been simmering on a low heat, spikes as high as its ever been when Ford opens the door and stares urgently into his eyes. Stan hopes he won't see the little dial there, the cooker telling him that he's done terribly. He doesn't want to explode.

Too much. Too much. Too many.

"Did you go to drama college, then?" Ford asks as he leads Stan through the house, so unexpected that his mouth drops open.

Why should Ford care? "Nope," he says uncertainly, "Didn't have any money, remember? Still, what are you doing nowadays?"

Ford's vague "science," is enough to tell Stan that he's doing far more with his life than Stan has. Stan didn't even get into poxy drama school, how's he supposed to measure up to Ford?

Stan remembers the feeling of wanting to puke as he sees Ford's face at the window. Of the pressure cooker ticking.

Ford looks ill.

Stan wants to fix it.

But he makes it worse, like he always does. Like he always will. He makes everything worse, and suddenly Ford -

Ford is -

Ford is -

Ford is gone and it's Stan's fault, Stan, all Stan, and the guilt of the name and the business he runs and the feeling of overwhelming shame is so much he considers just going out to the waterfall and jumping over, or something, except both of the Stans would never give in. And he's not got the balls to do it himself. 

So he doesn't. He smiles and cons and the cooker ticks away and his eyes burn with keeping it in all day long.

And some kid of their older sister, their far older sister, has kids, and his kids have kids. He invites Stan to their first birthday party, the family all smiling and asking how Stanford's getting on with the science, and Stan's replying as he can when -

He freezes.

Twins.

Two sleeping babies curled up in a cot, hands entangled, brown hair mixing together on the fluffy duck pillow.

Ford comes back.

Stan feels Dipper pulling away from them both. Stan sees the hurt in Dipper's eyes when Mabel presses the button and he sees Mabel's unshed tears when Dipper picks Ford over her, and Stan feels the pressure cooker ticking and screaming and everything hurts. He's too old. 

"You're leaving when the twins do," Ford tells him during their second conversation in a week, the most they've had since they were sixteen, "You've disturbed enough in my lab. Not that I'm not grateful for everything -"

"No, yeah, I understand," Stan says. He beams. "I understand."

He's always been a good actor. 

"Great!" Ford's smile lights up his whole face, "I'm glad you have somewhere to go."

 _Backseat, welcome back,_ Stan thinks as he walks out. 

He spends the next week smuggling canned food, a few blankets and pillows, and a few shirts out into the trunk of the car. Whatever happens, it's important that Dipper and Mabel don't find out that their Grunkle is as fake as the smile he wears. 

_The pressure cooker is a time bomb. The thumbs press hard against his eyes. At night, he bites his pillow and thinks fiercely of how much worse he could be getting right now. He's lucky to be let off scot-free._

Because Stan is the second twin. 

And then the pressure cooker breaks as he always knew it would, and the triangle is cackling with demonic laughter and Stan is  _holding a gun, woah, where did that come from,_ and the triangle is telling Stan what he's known his whole life. 

"Wouldn't it be great if you just did it?" The triangle narrows his eye at Stan. 

"Wouldn't it be what you've wanted for years?"

"Wouldn't everyone else be so much happier without Stanley Pines?"

"Without the second twin?"

Stan can't think and he can't act and the cooker ticks to zero and the gun is heavy, heavy in his hand. 

 ****  
  



	2. The Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The second twin's gone first! An eyepatch won't cover this hole in the dark! Hahaha!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Got a little caught up with other stuff, but hopefully this is okay. Sorry about Ford. He redeems himself.

It's dark and the air is heavy with the smell of something musky; not unpleasant, but odd, unsettling. 

This whole place is unsettling. It's worse than it was the first time they were here, and back then it was pretty bad. Since then the darkened and twisted Mystery Shack has gotten darker and more twisted, and there's more windows with fogged circles around where dull eyes blink menacingly. The pine trees grow tall into the sky and obscure the starless night. Beside the shack, impaled on a post, a scarecrow loses some stuffing as birds peck at it. It's wearing a fez and an eyepatch. 

"This is his  _mind?"_ Grunkle Ford says incredulously.

Dipper turns around, seeking Mabel, seeking comfort. Stan's mind is creepy. "Yeah," he replies, "It was like this the last time. Okay, not this creepy, but still. Dark and all messed up. Where's Stan?"

"No. No, you don't understand - mindscapes, they reflect the thoughts and emotions of the person.  _Mabel-"_ Ford whirls and points, "For example, would have a pastel mindscape, perhaps, and I know that mine is a cornfield with my Shack in the corner." 

 _My shack,_ Dipper thinks treacherously. So the Stan Twins haven't stopped fighting, then. That's... that's not helping Stan's mindscape. "So you're saying this isn't normal?"

"Of course - this is not good. This is very not good," Ford says. He pulls at the hem of his sweater. 

And then, obviously, because  _when_ have things in Gravity Falls not taken advantage of dramatic effect, a shot rings across the clearing.  _  
_

They hear it.

The laugh that follows Dipper around in his dreams and makes him paranoid and jumpy. A high pitched cackle, usually followed by some sort of nonsensical statement-or-other. 

_"The second twin's gone first! An eyepatch won't cover this hole in the dark! Hahaha!"_

"Bill!" Mabel yells, and then they're running, and Dipper doesn't want to think about what it means. 

_Second twin. Gone first._

Dipper runs and doesn't think about the scarecrow with no eyes and a mouth open in horror. 

 

Stan can't even do shooting himself right, apparently, because the gun is gone and he's still here. Admittedly he's lying on his side in what feels like warm, wet, bracken, and the triangle just won't stop laughing, but Stan's pretty sure that when you die, you don't just return to your body and lie there. He's pretty comfortable. He's not going to move. 

And his head hurts. 

It takes him a few minutes of triangle-monologue and self-inflection to work out that something has happened to the pressure cooker behind his eyes; it's gone into overdrive, and every beat of his heart sends another surge of dull ache through his mind. The waves of pain bounce off the back of his skull and meet the rest of the waves and it hurts, it hurts too much and for too long. 

Stan doesn't make any connection between that and the ground shaking. 

He doesn't hear a cracking voice, reedy and scratchy from overuse. Another one joins. And another. 

"Grunkle Stan?"

"Stanley!"

"Grunkle?"

_"Stan!"_

"Man, boy, dude, son, radical, bro, homie," the triangle recites. Stan knows his name. That's  _Bill._ That's the thing that hurt his nephew. 

Stan grits his teeth. He may be a terrible brother but he's one hell of a grunkle, and nothing, not even a demonic triangle, is allowed to mess with Dipper or Mabel or Wendy or, hell, Soos. (Those kids are  _his_ kids whether they know it or not.)

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, Stanley's not a-round, Sixer thinks that Pine Tree stinks, and  _Shoot-doot-Star-doot_ hey!" Bill spins around in the air as he sings, producing a cane from the air and waving it around in time to his song. Stan presses his face into the ground.  _  
_

He doesn't know where he is and that's worrying, right, because he remembers falling asleep in front of the TV with the twins curled up under each arm, all three of them exhausted from a day running the shack. He supposes he must have woken up or something - but if he has, where are the twins? Dipper and Mabel? Hell, even Ford should be around somewhere.

And his head aches. 

"Stan!"

And his body is so, so tired. 

"Grunkle Stan!"

"Doot-doot-doot-boop-murderisfun-doot-boop-"

And he can't even do that one thing right, the one thing he was supposed to do. 

_"Stan!"_

**_"Grunkle Stanley!"_ **

Stan is terrible, yes, and he knows it and they know it and everyone, everyone knows him for a fraud and a cheat and a liar. 

"Whatcha going to do, Sixer? Got your grandkiddies. Soft and squishy puppets, right? Squishy.  _Squish-squish,"_ Bill cackles and Stan hears Dipper muttering furiously, hears Mabel complaining at the top of her voice. 

"You killed my brother!" Stan hears Ford yell. 

(He remembers that fury, that contained, red-hot fire kept under control, aimed at him once upon a time.) 

"That I did, Sixer. Whatcha gonna do about it?"

"You killed our Grunkle!" Dipper screams. "I'll kill  _you,_ you trianglular... you..." His voice breaks abruptly. Something in Stan's gut wrenches.

Mabel. "He didn't. Stan's not dead, Dip, he's not. He can't be."

"And anyway,  _I_ didn't kill him, he did. He was  _so convinced_ he was a  _second twin_ that he was just dying, simply dying, dah-ling, to get that gun from my grabby little fingers. Wonderful, right?" Bill laughs again. Stan's head hurts too much. 

Too much. 

But the triangle has his Dipper and his Mabel and soon it'll have his brother as well. 

And Stan has pretty much only ever been good at being someone to point and aim and fire. If no one else is going to do it, then - 

"Stan!"

"Grunkle Stan!"

_"Yeah!"_

"You missed? You're a hopeless case," the triangle says. Like it's nothing. Like it's not grown two extra arms pinning  _Stan's_ niece and nephew to two trees. "A hopeless case, dearest Grunkle."

Stan could argue and battle with wit and words. That's the right thing to do, isn't it? To fight with your mind against someone that controls minds? Something Ford would excel at and that Stan would fail hopelessly at. 

So he doesn't. 

He puts the pressure cooker into his fist. It's ticking in seconds, now, squealing fit to burst, and as he drags himself out of the bracken he feels rage pouring in out of the cracks the cooker leaves. How  _dare_ he take what Stan's responsible for? How dare he? How  _dare he?_ And so he fills up and fills up and winds up and knows that behind him Ford has read the signs and is backing away. 

Bill's eye is close to his face. Too close.  

With a guttural yell and an explosion behind his own eyes, Stan punches him right in the middle of it. 

And. 

There's an afterword. 

It would be a crime for the story to just  _end_ with Stan in the centre surrounded by broken families. 

It's June and Ford is already downstairs, fretting over the food he made. Wendy and Soos arrived earlier in the cart Soos took a few months back to do repairs; technically, the two of them are a few hours early, but no one wants to miss this day. 

Stan fixes the fez on his head. His cane lies beside his bed. His smile stretches wider than he's ever seen it ( _juiceboxes thrust in the air; Stan Twins against the world)_ and his head is blissfully, happily, empty of pressure and worry and doubt.  _  
_

"Stan! Get down here, I see the bus!"

"Comin', jeez, Ford," Stan faux-grumbles. "Wendy, don't touch anything yet."

"Party!" Soos cries as Stan comes through the door, dropping a party cone on his head on top of the fez, "Party, Mister Stan! Party!"

"Love ya, Soos," says Stan. He pulls the elastic down over his chin. 

Ford appears in the doorway holding a plate of ham and cress sandwiches, "You look ridiculous, Stan."

A heartbeat. 

A smile.

"So do you, ya doof," Stan says happily, and as a slightly-taller boy in a worn pine tree cap and a girl with slightly longer hair and a pink sweater hug him around the waist, he feels like his smile could detach and become its own little bubble of euphoria. "Back for another summer?"

"Duh, Grunkle Stan."

"Yeah, duh."

And the afterword is over and the next part begins with smiles and jokes and Stan in the centre surrounded by a family as whole as it'll ever hope to be. 


End file.
